Not Without a Fight
by LancerZero
Summary: Everyone thinks Freya died in Cleyra's explosion...when her distant cousin and Fratley find out, they try to mount a rescue mission. Finished...probably.


Note: If you want me to review your stuff, leave me a helpful/useful review. Now that college is out for the summer, I ought to have a bit of time for reciprocal reviews . . .

* * *

**Not Without a Fight**

Four hundred years ago, a particularly brutal war between martial Alexandria and the industrial Regency of Lindblum carried over to the latter's ally, Burmecia. Burmecia had long provided troops and supplies to aid the Regency in times of need, but never before had the kingdom itself come under direct attack. Though it had been the first time, it would by no means be the last, and the people of Burmecia knew it. But by the time the war ended, they were bitterly divided about how to deal with it.

There were pacifists who wanted Burmecia to isolate itself and forget the troubles of the outside world, concentrating on developing the peaceful arts, such as dance and music, a heritage common to all Burmecians. There were the militarists, who were tired of reacting to the attacks of others and felt that the best defense was a good offense. They wanted Burmecia to remind Alexandria often that the nation in the rainy valley was not to be trifled with. And then there were the moderates, who wanted to continue providing Lindblum with assistance while increasing defense at home.

The king was, in the best interests of the majority of his kingdom, forced to side with the moderates. Declining a royal offer of assistance, the pacifists went into a nearby desert and founded the settlement of Cleyra high in the branches of an enormous tree. They protected and isolated it with a tremendous sandstorm formed and maintained by their nature magic and ritual dances. The militarists accepted the royal offer of assistance, but only if certain conditions were met: first, the king would have to allow the militarists to intervene on behalf of Lindblum at their own discretion; second, that they would retain access to the central kingdom of Burmecia, yet be allowed to trade openly with whomever they wished; and third, that any dragoons wishing to leave the King's Own regiment be allowed to do so.

After a few short weeks of negotiation all conditions were met, with one being added by the King: that if both Lindblum and Burmecia were in danger, that Burmecia would receive the militarists' aid first. In return, the militarists agreed to leave the Kingdom out of their daily affairs, lest they attract any of the enemies they were bound to make to the valley Kingdom.

The militarists moved into the Aerbs Mountains that divided the three nations. The largest of their settlements was founded at the intersection of the Burmecian, Lindblum, and Alexandrian branches of the Aerbs range. That location enabled them to attack Alexandria, assist Lindblum, or defend Burmecia with near-equal convenience.

Unfortunately, there was one feature other than high altitude that made the location anything ibut /iconvenient: wild dragons. Though not aggressive by nature the dragons were very territorial, and more than willing to fight for what they saw as their piece of the mountains.

So despite the fact that every Aerbs highlander was trained to use a weapon, the highlanders developed their own breed of dragoon: the Kindjals, named for a fighting knife out of ancient legend. In some ways, the two types of dragoon were quite similar: both relied on spear-based jump attacks; both wore headgear with a pair of triangular holes in the front, like a pair of angry eyebrows; both traveled the world on quests of various kinds, often information gathering; both were known and respected the world over for their fighting prowess; and both were able to enter almost any town, pub, or tavern they wished.

But that's where the similarities ended. Though their fighting styles were similar, their equipment and methods differed. The way they talked was different. During their years in the highlands, the people of the Aerbs had developed a strange accent that might've been called almost-Scottish, had such a country existed on Gaia. And whereas the Dragon Knights wore pants, tunic and robe the Kindjals were known for their drably colored, belted jumpsuits. Both carried backup weapons on their belts, but while Dragon Knights used knives a Kindjal typically carried a short sword. And though both wore headgear with holes of the same shape, Dragon Knights wore hats and Kindjals wore headbands. Though both relied on multi-bladed spears, the types they used were different. The Dragon Knights used a triblade spear, which had two secondary blades, one on either side of the spear point jutting outward at a forty-five degree angle. The Kindjals, however, used a multi-purpose spear they called (with typical highlands directness) the Mauler. It was tipped by a large, flat, diamond-shaped blade that was sharp on all sides. But the most recognizable feature of the Mauler was its double-edged sickle, a foot-long blade attached half a foot down from the primary one. The addition of the sickle to the four-edge blade made the Mauler one of the most versatile – and wicked-looking - polearms in existence.

Methods differed nearly as much as equipment. Kindjals were trained in the use of explosives, were skilled in piloting small airships, and were well-versed in many types of sabotage. They excelled at performing surgical strikes alone or in small groups, like Dragon Knights; but the Knights didn't use incendiary devices. Dragons Knights were able to go where they pleased because they were generally well-liked and respected. Kindjals were able to because they were feared, as much for their legendary tempers as for their abilities.

* * *

Which was something a young, dark brown-furred Kindjal was ready to prove. She threw open the heavy wooden door to the village Elder's house, ignoring the lock of blonde hair that her headband never seemed able to restrain.

The old salt-and-pepper furred Elder looked up from his desk, regarding the intruder with amused tolerance. "An' what brings ye here so early, Lira? Have ye captured another one o' the black mage's airships for us?"

"Me husband an' I need some troops an' air support." _Not like yer goin' to give it to us, but I hafta ask . . ._

"Is that all? You know as well as I that the transports are grounded due to lack of Mist to fuel 'em! It's all we can do to keep a pair o' small fighters in the air as lookouts. An' as for troops - they're either standin' guard or tryin' to rid Burmecia of monsters. All the breaches in those city walls make it a beastly job, let me tell ye. . ."

"Freya is alive!" Lira burst, drawing a blank stare from the Elder.

"Ye're out o' your mind, woman. We saw the fireball take Cleyra, even from all the way out here. Thought you an' that foreign man o' yours were dead. . . Have ye any proof o' your fever dream?"

"Aye! I've talked to Kal and Wei, the Tantalus crew, Minister Artanis, even General Beatrix of Alexandria. They've all seen Freya _after_ Cleyra was destroyed." _The effect that had on poor Frats . . . he'd thought it was somehow his fault she died up there, because he lacked the courage to tell her about me. Course, if he'd stayed up there to tell 'er I'd have thought HE was dead, too._

"Ach, bolsh!" the Elder swore. "An' I suppose the General just let you waltz right in to the remains of Alexandria Castle so you could talk to her?"

"As a matter o' fact, yes. Requested immediate audience, she did, soon's she found out a dragoon was around."

"Oh? And why'd she do that, eh? So she could tell us how sorry she is for nearly exterminatin' our people?"

"She an' her troops played a minor role! It was that damn fat Brahne and her damn limitless supply of black mages that nearly did us in. She was just a soldier followin' orders, same's me, or Bard - but listen! A bit more'n a month ago, Freya an' her companions left for a village on the Outer Continent on board the refurbished former Alexandrian flagship, the _Blue Narciss_. They sent constant reports of their progress to Lindblum, 'til about two weeks ago. Their last report said they were goin' into a desert to find Kuja's subterranean palace."

"An' you want to know if I can send ye to the Outer Continent?" the Elder rhetorically demanded. "Lass, we've barely the Mist to send a two-man fighter that far! An' I want to see Freya back as badly as you an' Bard, but I'm not usin' all our Mist tryin' to save someone who disappeared in a desert two weeks ago."

"Damned hypocrite!" Lira's fist slammed down on the table hard enough that the centuries-old hardwood table groaned in protest. "You were boo-hooin' at her funeral with the rest of us. An' ye won't even lend us a company of soldiers, will ye?" _Not like I didn't see this comin', but he's still a selfish bastard._

"I can't! Them dragons're up to somethin', monsters keep gettin' into Burmecia, an' we can't strip our guard, not even for Freya!"

"Fine! We'll go by ourselves."

"An' how'd ye intend to get there? D'ye intend to sprout wings and fly?"

"No. All we need to do is stop an' smell the roses." Shortly after the words left her mouth, a commotion could be heard outside the door. The Elder ignored it.

"An' what's that supposed to mean? Come now, I know ye don't go for philosophy."

"You see, Freya's got a lot of respect in the ranks, so to speak," Lira confided. "Me husband laid out our situation, and what we thought you'd say to it, to the troops in one of his speeches. They're willin' to do whatever it takes to get 'er back."

"How many 'troops?'"

"The lot of 'em." Lira grinned mischievously, just as a barely audible rumble began to increase in volume. Shouts could be heard outside, her husband's tenor easily discernable among them.

"What've you done, stolen one o' our airships?" the Elder demanded, incredulous.

Lira's grin just widened, and the Elder could take it no more. He plucked his simple, single-bladed spear from its rack over his chair and made for the door. Lira stepped aside, but when he threw the door open he found his way blocked by Lira's more-than-significant other, white fur and blonde hair moving from a sudden wind. His grey eyes were cold, though, and his seven-foot bardiche was almost threatening simply because of its perpetual presence in his hand. The Elder tried to peer around the dragoon Captain, but he matched every move. "Get out of my way, Bard," he snarled.

"That is the name under which I traveled for three and a half years," he snapped back. "But my name, the name I was born with, the name I forgot, the name under which I was married, is Fratley. Sir Fratley, Captain of His Majesty's Dragon Knights. If you want past, you can address me properly."

Lira grinned. _Me husband's come a long way from the terrified, memory-less wounded soldier I rescued from a mountainside those years ago. How different things might've been, if I'd known who he was, that he'd left a woman behind in Burmecia . . ._

The Elder glowered, and tightened his gnarled hands on the shaft of his spear. "Then step aside, _Sir Fratley_."

"As you wish." Before he stepped aside, Fratley dipped his head towards the elder and touched the front of his wide-brimmed hat with one hand. The salute of the Dragon Knights subtly reminded the elder that though the surviving Burmecian soldiers and knights were under his protection, they were by no means under his control.

The elder took about three steps outside his door before he stopped, staring in abject bewilderment at the spectacle before him. Every surviving Burmecian dragoon and soldier was lined up to from an honor guard, the raised Dragon Knights' triblades and soldiers' sabres forming a mythril and steel forest. Behind them on either side were Kindjals, maulers extended with points to the sky. That alone was impressive enough, but what really provided the finishing touch was the large, well-armed airship flying the Alexandrian diplomatic banner rising out of the clouds toward them.

"I'll be right back," Lira whispered into her husband's ear.

"Hurry, Love, and you won't miss a thing. I'll keep them busy," he whispered back. None save him noticed Lira beating a path to the armory.

* * *

The armory was, of course, unguarded; those that would normally have done so were a part of the honor guard. Once she was in the subterranean chamber, it was easy for the Kindjal to find what she was looking for: Kain's Lance. The Talon. When the people of the highlands were new, a great white dragon had approached the newly formed Kindjals and requested their help in repelling an impending attack. What he was guarding was of the utmost importance, he'd said, and must not be allowed into the claws of the other dragons that would try to seize it. A skilled and charismatic Kindjal named Kain had led a small group of volunteers to the dragon's lair, and successfully defeated the attackers when they came, two days later. The ancient dragon had been impressed, and grateful. So grateful that he'd forged spears of various types for the volunteers using his own flame and hoard of precious and imbued metals. The spears were to be used and passed on only to worthy descendants, the only circumstance under which Kindjal or Dragon Knight was permitted to carry and use any spear other than the mauler or triblade. Fratley's bardiche was such a weapon; for though he'd been born in the city of Burmecia, he was of highland descent.

Kain had been exceptional in the old one's eyes; he received an ancient spear. The spear, the dragon had explained, had once belonged to a human dragoon whose name had also been Kain. Though ancient, the barbed-arrow shaped spear was still very sharp, made of the finest of the dragon's metals. But even that was not deemed quite fine enough, for the dragon attached one of his own great talons to the shaft of the spear below the point, like the sickle of a Mauler.

Even as she removed the weapon from its place, Lira had no intention of using it in battle. In fact, she didn't even intend for it to see the light of day until she was alone with Freya. Lira had a private score to settle with her husband's ex-lover, and she would settle it in the way of the highlands. Her plans for Freya would require a weapon as powerful as Talon, and Lira was looking forward to seeing the look of surprise on the famous dragoon's face as she finally got what she deserved.

_The gift of the most powerful ancestral weapon in the highlands. After all, she's more'n earned it, and like myself she's a distant descendant of Kain. I can think of no one better than her to wield the Talon.

* * *

_

Sir Fratley watched his soldiers with pride as they stood their ground, even when the Alexandrian royal airship _Red Rose _touched down with her hull less than ten feet from them. The vessel's main hatch was almost perfectly aligned with the aisle formed by the impromptu honor guard.

"I'd like to know _beforehand_ next time you invite royalty," the elder grumped. "So, has Queen Garnet herself come to work out a treaty that'll last longer than her mother's? Or are they here to offer terms of surrender? Or do ye just plan to capture the _Red Rose_?"

"None of the above," Fratley coolly responded. "Garnet's with Lady Freya, remember? They're both as missing as Regent Cid, Zidane, Captain Steiner, that Vivi kid, and everyone else on the _Blue Narciss._"

"Then who's controlling the _Red Rose_?"

"Someone with whom we have reached a mutual understanding."

"Speak plainly!"

"General Beatrix," a nearby Dragon Knight supplied with a half-snarl. "And quite frankly, Sir Fratley, none of us like the idea of you and Lady Lira being on the same ship with such a treacherous creature without any of us to escort you."

Though all of the soldiers still faced forward, many voiced agreement that could barely be heard over the roar of the _Red Rose_'s still-racing engines.

Fratley, closely eyeing the closed main hatch, tapped the butt of his bardiche on the ground three times to signal the general that he needed a bit more time. As agreed, a small light on the airship's visible flank blinked once to acknowledge.

"Not every kingdom's been as blessed with wise leaders as we've been; Alexandria's been cursed with a spate of bad ones, and Brahne was the worst. Her people trusted her implicitly, even as we trusted our king. But Brahne betrayed her people's trust in a way no Burmecian king ever has: she led them to war against an innocent, peace-loving people. She told her people and soldiers that we were an imminent threat, that we had secret plans to attack them. What were _they_ to do? They believed her, and organized a preemptive strike. Her greed, though I doubt any of you knew this, extended even beyond Burmecia, Cleyra, and Lindblum. Queen Garnet was an adopted daughter, a survivor of the legendary Summoner Tribe, and her adoptive mother wanted her eidolons. She would, in fact, stop at nothing to get them. Not even her daughter's life. And she would have succeeded completely, had her top general and the captain of her knights not seen through the facade and taken a stand against their wretched queen. Lady Freya Crescent stood with them in Garnet's defense, and that act of completely unqualified self-sacrifice and courage may have given us the best chance for a lasting peace that we've had in centuries."

"Peace with _them_?" demanded a peg-legged regular. "Why, with the highlanders on our side, we could _control_ Alexandria!"

Again, Fratley checked the spinning rotors and hatch before replying, "And throw the Lady Freya's deed back at her feet? Thanks largely to her, we have a chance now for a true peace - not a cease-fire, but _peace_! For the first time in history, we're in a clear position to end conflict with Alexandria, either as equals or, if they refuse, as conquerors. Queen Garnet is very young, but already wiser than her mother; she will agree. And if reports I've heard about her are accurate, she'll even offer to help rebuild." Before anyone could protest that statement, he continued, "There will be bitterness. I can't recall Burmecia in its prime, yet hearing of its ruin brought tears to my eyes. There will be pain, and I assure you that there will be recompense. But there _must - be - no - retribution_!"

"Well said, love," Lira whispered from behind. "Did I miss anything?"

"Just a little pep talk," Fratley replied with nonchalance.

"Ye nearly had _me_ convinced," the elder confided. Fratley nodded his head in thanks to the elder for the rare compliment, and tapped the butt of his bardiche against the ground once. The airship's rotors began to spin down, and the hatch swung open. When Beatrix stepped out of the airship, every waiting Burmecian instinctively tightened their grip on their weapons. The Alexandrian General was as unmistakable as she was beautiful and lethal. She was, in fact, not unlike the airship's namesake: a lovely thing studded with thorns. She wore rose-red colored pants, as well as a white cloak and shirt. It was said that beneath her shirt she wore chain mail of pure adamant, but none could be sure. Strapped to her leg was a knife and at her side was the near-legendary sword, Save the Queen.

Beatrix paused on the threshold as she saw that the entire honor guard still wore Burmecian uniform. . . and were likely willing to bring their raised swords and spears down on her at the slightest provocation, in spite of Fratley's doubtless inspiring words. So she strode between the ranks, looking straight ahead but with her hand never far from the hilt of her sword; a subtle bit intended to show them that although she didn't fear them, she did respect their fighting abilities. The subtlety didn't go unnoticed, and the already alert stares of the assembled guard became even more wary. Rather than doing the martial Alexandrian fist-to-chest salute (which would have been inflammatory) or the dragoon's salute (which would have been a fatal insult), General Beatrix nodded respectfully to the Elder, "Bard," Lira, and the guards, each in turn. 

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Lira told Beatrix, returning the nod.

"Thank you for informing me that my newly crowned queen was missing. It would've taken ages for the news to travel first to and then through Lindblum, and then hope might have been lost. All I am able to spare for this venture are the Knights of Pluto and a dozen of my own. How many of your people and airships are coming? I've heard the Kindjals boast a sizable fleet."

"None. Even with everyone pullin' double-duty as soldiers, keepin' nosy dragons away is manpower-intensive work. An' rebuildin' Burmecia'll take a lot of stone, so we've got an extra shift at the quarries. Combine all o' that with our weekly monster sweeps through the ruins an' Kuja's airships full of Black Mages that still pay us visits, an' what yer seein' is what yer gettin'. Me husband an' I are the only ones comin'.

"Wait!" cried a pair of soprano voices from behind the ranks. Two figures leapt over the soldiers to land next to Lira.

"Shannon! Sharon! What're you two doin' away from the clinic?" Lira addressed the pair, whom she (and everyone else) recognized as the two Cleyran Maidens that had jumped from the mighty tree before it vaporized. Sharon, the Flower Maiden, wore faded yellow pants and a tunic, both held to her narrow frame by a belt that also held a mythril fighting knife and pouch. Shannon, the Water Maiden, had similar equipment and a similar outfit, but hers was blue. They had both confined their lush brown hair in waist-length ponytails, and they appeared determined enough to use _them_ as weapons if need be.

"The soldiers are as healed as our meager skills can make them," Shannon replied. "Freya was ready to give her life for ours; now, it is our chance to do the same for her!"

"And we're not strong enough to work in the quarries; and we have no skill with the spear, so we cannot defend against dragons," Sharon added. "We shall accompany you."

"Girls," Fratley chided, "This'll be risky work. We have no idea what dangers may lurk at the other end, but whatever they are, we'll be facing them alone. General Beatrix and her knights will be searching for their queen, so the task of finding our Lady will fall squarely on us. The only reason we're even going together is that there's no other way to get there quickly. Not to mention the fact that you two are the only surviving Cleyran Master Dancers; if something should happen to you, there will be none to teach the ancient dances your people developed after they split from Burmecia."

"What my long-winded husband is tryin' to say is that we can't afford any dead weight," Lira explained.

"We will not be dead weight! We've lived around the desert, and we can at least help find Kuja's desert palace."

"Aye, but can ye _fight_?" the elder demanded. "They won't be able to spare any time lookin' out for you."

"Do you honestly think that all of our dances were peaceful? That none of the monsters that lived in the trunk ever found their way into Cleyra? We remember martial dances, too, and are skilled with light swords and knives," Shannon responded, not without pride.

Lira shrugged. "Sorry girls, but we can't take the risk. Beasties climbin' up a trunk an' the trained monsters and golems Kuja uses are two different things. You've never fought anythin' of the caliber you'd face at the palace."

"Yes, but they could," Beatrix contradicted, drawing her knife. Instantly, every Burmecian assembled near her leveled their spears and swords at her, ready to strike. Even Fratley, Lira, the Elder and the two Dancing Maidens readied their weapons.

"What in th' six fires of Ifrit d'ye think ye're doin', woman?" the Elder demanded. "If ye're tryin' to start the war anew, this is a fine way to do it!"

"The attacks I led on your kingdoms were the most terrible mistakes I've ever made, and I will _never_ repeat them. I know that none of you will believe me, so I feel safe saying that after my Queen's return, I plan to retire from the service of Alexandria. Captain Adelbert Steiner will take my place." Murmurs of disbelief rippled through the ranks, followed rapidly by surly sarcasm. "All I intend to do is test the abilities of these girls, here and now. If they truly wish to come, then let them prove themselves!"

A nameless kindjal within the ranks called out, "Aye! Give 'em a chance!" Not all agreed with him, but the only two people that mattered did. Shannon and Sharon both nodded.

"But if you more than scratch either of them. . ." Fratley shook his head. "You know what will happen."

"I won't. I'll not so much as tear their clothing."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Lira asked the two dancers. "She's not near as good with a knife as a sword, but she's still good enough to give a knife-fighter like Zidane second thoughts."

"Freya, Zidane, even their sweet little black mage friend. . . none of them gave up, and neither will we," answered Shannon, the more outspoken of the two. Lira shrugged, and walked back to her husband's side. The soldiers backed away from the three to give them fighting room.

* * *

"Begin," Beatrix ordered, and it was on. She recognized her opponents' weaknesses almost immediately. First, they attacked with set-piece moves, completely predictable in motion if you could recognize the sequence by its opening motions. And Beatrix had seen enough Burmecian regulars and dragoons fight to know most of their movements. For the two Cleyrans were fighting the way they danced: with absolute precision and rigid adherence to form. Their speed, agility, and flexibility were stunning, and every movement had a natural, practiced, fluid sort of grace to it. _Unfortunately, unlike the beasts they've fought, Kuja's minions will eventually recognize the patterns behind the blurs of motion. These two need to learn spontaneity._ "This has gone on long enough," she told them, and promptly kicked her foot out to meet Sharon's knife hand as it came around in its predictably perfect arc. The brown-clad dancer yelped as her foot-long mythril fighting knife was kicked from her hand and into the dirt.

Seeing how her childhood friend had been defeated, Shannon tried switching in-sequence, modifying them with a subtly effective randomness. But she was done in by the pair's second weakness: fear. Whether fear of failure or fear of physical harm, she was being too timid, and not making full use of her advantages. Beatrix drove her back with a vicious series of whirling slashes, and knocked her knife from her hand with a booted foot. The spark of defiance in their eyes told the Alexandrian General that though disarmed, the dancers had not yet been defeated. _They aren't half bad_, she thought to herself. _All they need is a little incentive, something to force their fear aside and knock them out of their practiced rhythms. . ._

Beatrix sneered, the sort of look that had been known to make grown men soil their armor. Injecting a healthy dose of contempt and derision into her voice, the general spat, "Pathetic." With that, she turned to walk back into the ship.

The dancers' pretty faces contorted into ugly snarls as they tore their blades from the dirt. Uttering shrill warcries that sounded more animal than human, the maidens dug their clawed toes into the ground and launched themselves at their enemy's back. Beatrix whirled at the first sound to defend herself, but even she was unprepared for the speed and sheer ferocity of the Cleyrans' attack. Though she blocked Sharon's low attack, the tip of Shannon's blade caught the general's right shoulder as it came down from above. Cursing herself for underestimating her opponents, Beatrix switched knife hands and crouched low. She was going to concentrate on defending herself until a new pattern emerged, a strategy that had enabled her to win countless duels, but it was soon obvious to her that would be a bad idea. She'd done as she'd intended: the Cleyrans were at last holding nothing back, and deviating unpredictably from their previous textbook style. The problem was the Beatrix had done it a little _too_ well. The dancers were blindingly quick, quicker than any of their kind - save for Dragoons - that Beatrix had faced, and they were hungry for a kill. Worse still, so were the soldiers that surrounded the little battle; if one of the dancers fell, they would be only too happy to help defeat the general. Ending the fight with everyone alive would be no small challenge.

The Cleyrans were whirling dervishes, spinning and leaping unpredictably while somehow managing to synchronize their attacks. _Years of ritual dancing together, no doubt. Which general was it that said, 'Professional soldiers are predictable, but the world is full of amateurs?' They're trying to kill me, and I'm supposed to defeat them without drawing blood or knocking them unconscious. . . a worthy challenge._ For the first time in recent memory, she found herself hard-pressed to keep up with her opponents. Often she found herself blocking one attack at the same time she was dodging another.

Shannon leapt past Beatrix, spinning her body as she swung her knife in a wide arc. The Alexandrian general dodged it, but not Sharon's knife as the maiden tucked herself into a roll. The fresh cut on her unarmored thigh combined with the slashed shoulder were starting to slow the general down, an effect she could ill afford against such fleet-footed adversaries. _Time to rob them of their synchronized attacks._ The next time they attacked, Beatrix concentrated on Sharon. Again, a solid kick knocked her blade away. Shannon's blade slashed across Beatrix's midsection, but couldn't penetrate the shirt of mail that she did, indeed, wear beneath her tunic. She feigned sudden weakness just long enough to snatch the flower maiden's fallen blade from the ground. Then the enraged Cleyrans did something wholly unexpected.

Beatrix got up just in time to catch the water maiden's blade between her own two, leaving the general wide open for the clawed foot that slammed into her belly with enough force to throw her nearly ten feet away. Shannon was thrown as well, but Sharon was not. She flew past Beatrix, drawing Save the Queen as she passed. Beatrix regained her footing in seconds, winded and bloodied but undefeated, a fact she made clear by laughing loudly. That, alone of all actions, saved her from a mortal blow by her own blade.

"Better! Much better!" she exclaimed. "In all my years of fighting, that's the first time anyone has had the gall and speed to remove my sword from its sheathe. Very clever! If you two can fight like that, _every time_, you're welcome to come with us." And the general exchanged Sharon's knife for her broadsword, and strode back into the _Red Rose _unopposed.

The Burmecians erupted in cheers and applause, congratulating the pair for their victory. An admiring regular who was missing an arm gave Sharon his sabre, explaining that it was "bigger than your knife but not so heavy as that gawdawful broadsword, if you take my meaning." Shannon gratefully accepted her friend's knife, and sheathed one on each hip.

"Congratulations, ladies. You've just seen as much of her blood as has many an experienced knight, including myself." Fratley's compliment and the cheering had the desired effect. The dancers smiled, tension ebbing as it finally sunk in that they'd done it. Lira clapped them on the back and directed them to the _Red Rose_. And for the first time in history, a royal Alexandrian airship welcomed the presence of armed Nezumi.

* * *

Robshi: First off, thanks for the review! And the point; I'll be editing the story in the near future. Although, remember: this is a what-if fic, with events not intended to bring about the same ending as the game. And be warned that I enjoy taking things that most people don't mess with, and writing about them. If Fratley had no memory of Freya, what would there be to keep him from falling in love with another? I've never seen anyone else address that possibility. Again, though, thanks! I will be reviewing more of your story, also, now that college is out. 


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